BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense)

by John W. Mefford

  Yulia could feel herself lose control of her pulse, and her body begged her to take action. Reducing her airflow to a bare minimum to keep her adrenaline rush at bay, she could feel the clops of their boots in between the sporadic beats of a bass drum pounding in her chest.

  The mountainous men were there, and then moving past her. She released a breath, but the man bringing up the rear clipped her right arm with his extended elbow. She felt the tip of the blade of her knife slice across her wrist. It must have slid out during her crawl through the ducts. Instinctively she jerked her left hand over, peeling the blade away from her skin, a circle of crimson the size of a quarter staining her white shirt.

  The man swung his head back and grunted out, “Sorry,” and kept moving.

  Perspiration coated her entire body, but Yulia finally took in a deep breath. She moved the handle of the knife lower to where it touched the base of her palm. This allowed her to keep the blade off her open wound, but also enabled a quicker response to any threat. And she knew she was far from safe.

  The cafe was off to her right, and she turned her head to watch the melee, as many did. There were two mounds of people, paramedics, police, SWAT, and suits—one near the bald man, the larger group on the lectern. People on phones, swatting their hands this way and that. Chaos. She had no ill will toward the innocent bystanders. Many likely had Ukrainian roots. Even the drunk, bald man meant nothing to her, other than him interrupting a clean kill. Her mind tugged at a quick thought. Perhaps she could veer into the cafe, acting as a concerned Russian immigrant, manipulating her way in closer proximity to the ambassador. If she saw him still breathing, she could pull out her 9mm and end his life. But it would also end her life.

  Just as Yulia turned her head to the glass doors a few feet away, the sun nearly blinding her, a voice bounced off the enormous ceiling.

  “Stop that woman!”

  Unsure who had spotted her, or where the shout had originated, she burst out of her walk, smacking the first of two sets of metal door handles in two seconds. Through the first, she ran into the back of a man as tall and wide as a brown bear, and just as hairy. She bounced backward, then heard another scream behind her.

  “Grab that woman! She shot the ambassador!”

  Shoving her way past the bear and his family, Yulia’s Rangers cap became dislodged. She threw it to the ground, banged her way through a second set of doors, and spilled onto the front plaza, blood rushing through her veins. Her eyes locked on the park on the other side of the frontage road. She darted across the plaza, dodging kids, adults, and two more paramedics pushing a gurney. Leaping over a park bench, she heard the doors behind her smack open. Was it the SWAT officers, Russian security?

  Just steps away from ground cover and trees, her hair flowing behind her, she pumped her arms like she was making the final run on an Olympic floor exercise. Out of nowhere, a raised stone tripped her. Unable to keep her balance, she tumbled to the unforgiving concrete, popping her skull, as motes of light flickered overhead.

  Tasting a trickle of blood, she quickly replayed the scenario and realized a foot had tripped her—on purpose. Opening her eyes, she saw a blond bimbo standing there with her arms crossed. The bitch who’d tripped her. With clenched teeth, Yulia spotted her knife and reached for it. A man’s shoe stepped on the handle. Accident? Didn’t have time to think it through. She jerked her knee up to her chin, grabbed the 9mm from her ankle strap, and used a lone second to steady her shaking arms.

  Yulia fired.

  <><><>

  “No!” I yelled in midair, my outstretched arms connecting with the grip of the compact handgun.

  My body fell to the surface, flattening the miniature sniper. Or so I thought.

  Squirming like a pissed-off shark out of water, she swung her elbow into my nose, and blood gushed everywhere. Stunned for a second, I tried to move to my knees, but she launched her knee upward, slamming my sac, which dropped me back to the concrete.

  She wiggled out from under me, and I dove for her feet. She tripped to her knees, releasing a squeal. “Bastard. Let go!” Just as she kicked me away, I saw a pink and white tennis shoe flying through the air, then I heard a smack.

  The sniper’s jaw. She dropped to the concrete like a dead weight.

  Looking into the sky, I saw nothing but an hourglass figure and blond curls.

  “I kicked the shit out of her, Booker,” Alisa said with high-pitched excitement.

  My partner had saved my ass.

  <><><>

  The roar of the engine and constant strum of tires on pavement couldn’t muffle the wailing siren. Perched on her knees next to her father’s stretcher in the ambulance headed to Parkland Hospital, Maggie watched a paramedic change out Javier’s dressing, the second time since leaving the DMA. For a brief second, she caught a glimpse of the hole in his chest, a gaping exit wound. Undoubtedly, the killer had used a hollow-point bullet.

  “Is he going to make it?” she asked, her stomach in her throat. She peered into the paramedic’s eyes.

  He tightened his lips. “We’re doing everything we can.”

  She knew what he was trying to say.

  Sweeping her eyes across her father for perhaps the last time, she noticed how much older he appeared, his body not as thick or muscular as it was just a year earlier. It was amazing his body had held up this long, given years of neglect and abuse, followed by the brain tumor, the operation, chemotherapy and radiation, and recently the lack of treatment and apparent stress of going on a killing rampage.

  The ambulance rocked left as tires squealed around a turn. Maggie noticed an eye twitch, then open. His hand moved.

  “Dad, I’m here. It’s Maggie.” She leaned closer, her heart banging her chest.

  Javier moved his head, his eyes blinking to life. He lifted a hand and tugged at the oxygen mask.

  Maggie glanced at the paramedic and he nodded. She pulled the mask back.

  “Dad, I’m here. I’m with you.” She couldn’t tell him he’d live. She was never one to tell a bald-faced lie, even in this situation.

  He mumbled something, only a wet gurgle escaping his lips.

  Laying a hand on his shoulder, she put an ear toward his face.

  “Dad, you don’t have to say anything. Save your energy. Just know that I’m here for you. And I love you.”

  He’d killed at least two people, just in the last few days. But she’d seen the good side of Javier Calero, the man who’d finally come to grips with the person he’d turned into after years of self-loathing. His recent fascination with JFK, the assassination, she couldn’t figure out, not completely.

  “Why did you do this, Dad? Why kill innocent people?”

  He licked dry lips and swallowed, then winced before pushing out words. “I turned into a monster…all because of Castro. Kennedy was our best hope, our only hope. It changed me… moving away from…”

  His face contorted, and Maggie’s gut twisted into a flurry of knots. “It’s okay, Dad. I understand.”

  Grunting, he held up a hand. “No, you don’t understand. No one does. But that’s okay. I tried to right the wrongs of this world. Now I see I caused more hurt. I’m sorry.”

  Holding a trembling fist against her lips, tears squeezed from Maggie’s eyes. She ran a finger across his face, his skin already chilled, clammy. His bloodshot eyes blinked, and he turned his head against her hand, like a puppy looking for more love.

  Maggie could hear the beeps of the machines picking up speed, the paramedic moving to grab a needle, pump something else into Javier’s IV. But she kept her gaze on her father, and for the first time that she could recall, he returned the connection, and a single tear rolled down his face.

  “I love you,” he said.

  And then Javier’s eyes closed for the last time.

  23

  Just beyond the throngs of colorful blankets, conductor Jan Van Sweep slowly raised his baton, then swooped it downward like a painter making dramatic brush strokes across
a blank canvas. A harmonic melody pulsated in my core as the Dallas Symphony Orchestra commenced their first tune of the outdoor concert, bringing an energy and life to downtown Dallas that was rarely accomplished.

  “It’s Frozen, Daddy. It’s Frozen. Wooooo!"

  My little girl, Samantha, had just recognized the theme song to the Disney movie. She skipped and jumped across the green lawn, twirling her ice-blue ribbon stick that had been handed out upon our arrival. I realized she was growing up almost daily, and unlike anyone else, she’d captured my heart from the inside out.

  “Let it all go, Samantha,” I called out, unable to keep my prideful laugh at bay.

  And she did. With remarkable coordination for a five-year-old, Samantha leaped and completed a pirouette with hardly any effort, the shimmering blue stream flowing behind her as if she’d choreographed the entire move.

  “Damn, she’s just the cutest thing ever,” Alisa said.

  “She could melt the polar ice cap.” I looked at Alisa and winked, as she draped an arm over my shoulder, patting it a few times.

  The sky was spotless, a crystal blue melting over the horizon, as barely visible stars twinkled across the darker backdrop above our heads. We’d gathered at the architectural marvel, Klyde Warren Park, Dallas’ miniature version of New York City’s Central Park. Constructed on top of Woodall Rodgers Freeway, an east/west thoroughfare that spliced the middle of downtown, the park had small trees, opens areas of grass, walking paths, and a section to hold outdoor concerts. More importantly, it fused the two sides of concrete and buildings, softening the edges of our evolving city. I would have never guessed that the snooty, urban Dallas crowd could socialize in such a relaxed setting.

  “We received our final payment from Darla Yates. On time, I might add,” Alisa said with a smirk.

  “Good to hear,” I said, my eyes still glued to Samantha prancing across the lawn, now joined by three other girls about her age. Helicopter parents quickly broke out iThis and iThat to ensure they captured everything on video. I ignored the urge and instead just soaked up the memory. In just the last few weeks, my little Mittens seemed to have sprouted, her confidence soaring, her comments more thought-provoking.

  “You’re a lucky guy, Booker.”

  “Are you getting envious? They do come in different makes and models.” I gave my partner a wry grin.

  Alisa took in the nighttime air. “I’m getting up there in age. A few months ago, though, I would have told you it just wasn’t meant to be. Now—”

  “Hey Alisa, I finally found you.” Josh Parry jogged up, wearing a blue and gold jogging suit with his collar turned up. She extended an arm around his waist, and he reciprocated, then planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

  The couple separated by a good ten years had made giant leaps in the relationship department in just the last two weeks.

  “Nice shoes,” she said to Josh, pointing the toe of her pink and white tennis shoe, drawing a comparison with Josh’s shiny black and white athletic shoes.

  Almost as large as my oversized feet, Josh’s shoe had stopped Yulia from flinging her four-inch dagger blade at Alisa after my crazy partner had tripped up the would-be assassin in the DMA Plaza. After I’d tackled the Ukrainian sniper to the ground, it was Alisa’s drill team kick that turned out Yulia’s lights, saving her life, mine, and possibly countless others.

  “Are you guys planning on touring, showing off your shoes, maybe putting together a little Vaudeville song and dance routine?”

  “I might have played a little bit of soccer, but I’m not that coordinated actually. I could just watch Alisa get up there and dance a little.”

  I saw Josh’s eyebrows arc skyward. Alisa kneaded his side. “You’re silly and delusional.”

  From what Alisa had shared, Josh had been quite the soccer player, joining a UK-sponsored club team at age ten. That led to him attending Stanford on a soccer scholarship—a national powerhouse—although he dropped out after three years, just twenty hours shy of graduating. How he got mixed up in the world of cybercrime, I’d yet to be told. Considering his pro bono work for the city of Dallas, and us, Josh had apparently seen the light.

  It wasn’t until the aftermath of Yulia’s arrest, as the FBI swarmed the DMA grounds, that I realized Josh was the same guy who’d been the referee at Samantha’s soccer game. Apparently, he hadn’t been able to find another paying job, given his arrest record. But in a few weeks, he’d have enough hours to go back to court and have his conviction reduced to a Class A misdemeanor. That said, I only knew that he’d endangered himself to help stop a trained assassin, even if she was half his size.

  “I haven’t seen any news on Yulia. Granville phoned yesterday asking about her,” Alisa said, rubbing up against Josh, seemingly not at all intimidated by the age difference.

  “FBI agent Guidry called last night. Said Yulia has opened up, told them about the spy program she was a part of.”

  “I’m just glad she wasn’t successful,” Alisa added.

  “Amen to that. The Russian ambassador only had a bump on his head, courtesy of me tackling him.”

  My arm brushed against my side, and I could feel the stitches where the bullet had grazed my torso. I was indeed lucky, on many levels.

  “Guidry went on to say that Yulia didn’t hide anything. She was very open about her political views, especially concerning Russia’s aggression against Ukraine.”

  “A lot of people think her actions are justified,” Josh added.

  “Who’s telling you that?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’m reading on various chat rooms, European based mostly, a few based here in the US, Ukrainian nationals.”

  I had thought Alisa was a whiz behind the wheel of computer, until I’d heard about Josh’s “skills” when he’d located the video footage of Javier stalking Nancy Fitzwater. Interestingly, Underground.com never retaliated or went to the police for his cyber grab. I assumed they’d acquired the footage illegally.

  “The US Attorney’s office is going to run the prosecution against Yulia, from what Guidry said. I don’t think Yulia is going to see the light of day until she’s over the age of fifty.”

  Josh nodded, while Alisa looked into his eyes. I could see her reading him, or was it puppy love? I had to admit it felt a little strange seeing Alisa so smitten.

  “By the way, Granville is quite pleased to have back at least some of the stolen artifacts from the museum, even if he lost another employee in the process,” she said, rubbing Josh’s abs a bit longer than necessary.

  Josh had scoured the Dark Web and found ten artifacts on a smuggling website accepting bids. He was able to trace the ownership back to Mary, Granville’s bitchy, unhelpful assistant.

  “Nice work, Josh.” I shook his hand.

  “Thank you, sir.” I almost did a double take. Josh was dating Alisa, a girl five years my senior and someone I’d hooked up with in college. While Josh was a decade younger, he was acting like I was Alisa’s father. Strange. But I couldn’t deny his set of skills.

  “It might just be a matter of time before some startup in Deep Ellum grabs you off the market.”

  Josh and Alisa both turned my way.

  “But in the meantime, as cases come across that could use your expertise, how do you feel about doing some contract work? No promises on the hours. Could be one hour a week. Could be more.”

  Relief washed across Josh’s face, and Alisa grinned ear to ear, her crow’s feet a bit more visible at her eyes. “I’d welcome the challenge, Booker. Thanks for your confidence in me. This could be my opportunity. Help me a get a break in the real job market.”

  “Let’s see where it takes us.”

  “Look, Daddy. It’s Miss Maggie.” Samantha had rushed up, huffing out breaths while pointing her free hand.

  I turned and saw Maggie ambling our way, her hands buried in the pockets of a gold vest, her hair styled around her soft complexion, gold hoop earrings adding just enough bling to make her stand out. She d
rew closer, and I peered into her eyes. They were reflecting off the lights surrounding the DSO stage. There was some sadness, but also a calm strength.

  “Wasn’t sure if you were going to make it out here.”

  She’d been in Miami the last two weeks, helping her family deal with her father’s aftermath, holding the funeral. She’d traveled back to Dallas just yesterday to settle the bill at Javier’s apartment complex and gather up his last remaining possessions.

  She gave me a quick hug. “It’s a beautiful night. I felt like I needed to be around friends.”

  Maggie bent down to her knees, curling hair behind an ear. “What do you have here?”

  “It’s my very own ribbon,” Samantha said, her “r” still sounding like a “w.” “I’m pretending to be Elsa.”

  The orchestra had moved on to another tune, but Samantha was still in dream mode, and she began twirling the ribbon around and shouting out, “Wooo!”

  Lifting back to her feet, Maggie turned her head, twitching her cute nose. “Something smells great. Who’s hungry?”

  “I am, I am, I am.” Samantha raced across the grass toward the Fajita Rita’s food truck, the rest of us not far behind.

  Justin and Dax were tucked inside cooking up a storm, serving customers.

  “Not sure we can serve this motley crew,” Dax said with a hint of sarcasm. Then he noticed Samantha with a finger to her mouth as she tried to read the menu affixed to the metal side. “And what can I get you, Samantha?”

  Henry and Cindy showed up, walking hand in hand, each appearing to be biting their lips.

  The Dallas assistant district attorney giggled like a little girl, but Cindy spoke first.

  “Sorry we’re late. Henry popped a surprise on me.”

  My eyes didn’t blink, and Alisa moved toward her new bestie, Cindy. Justin had jumped out of the truck, a white apron still around his neck.

  “What’s the big news? Anything we could cater?” he asked with a smile.

  Henry’s smile turned downward in a confused way, but again, Cindy jumped in.